Laskov had been monitoring the El Al and ATC frequencies and switched to channel 31 to meet Becker. “Emmanuel, this is Gabriel 32. I hear you fine. I can see you and Clipper at my eleven o’clock low position. Leave one radio on this frequency.”
“Roger, Gabriel. When we get unrestricted clearance from ATC, we’re climbing to 19,000 and accelerating to Mach 2.0 on a heading of 280 degrees.”
“Roger. I’ll be with you. So far, so good.”
“So far. I’m going back to company frequency. The copilot will monitor you.”
“Roger—break—Hawkeye, this is Gabriel 32. How are your blips?”
The E-2D Hawkeye was almost five kilometers directly above the Concordes and F-14’s. It had been simultaneously monitoring all three frequencies. The Air Control officer on board picked up his radiophone. “I have you all spotted and plotted, Gabriel. Do you see a craft approaching from a bearing of 183 degrees? About 180 kilometers distance from you? Not a scheduled airliner.”
Laskov spoke into the intercom to his flight officer behind him. “See anything, Dan?”
Daniel Lavon looked down at the combined television and cathode ray tube. “Possible. Something’s at the southwest edge of our radar. A little over 160 kilometers and approaching our intended flight path at right angles.”
The E-2D Hawkeye, with a crew of five and a cabin full of the latest electronic equipment, was in a better position to detect and classify aircraft than the F-14’s. The flight technician on the Hawkeye spoke to Laskov. “We’re trying to contact this craft, but we can’t raise him.”
Laskov acknowledged.
The E-2D command information controller got on the phone. “Gabriel, the unidentified craft is moving at approximerely 960 kilometers per. He is on a course and speed that will bring him across your intended flight path, but at 1,800 meters below you and Emmanuel and Clipper at your present altitude.”
“Roger, Hawkeye. Contact the son-of-a-bitch and tell him to change course and speed, or both.”
“Roger, Gabriel. We’re trying.”
Laskov considered. In about a minute, the unidentified craft would be within the 160 kilometer range of his Phoenix. If this craft had a pair of Russian Acrid missiles, it couldn’t engage the Concordes until it was within 130 kilometers. This 30-kilometer difference in range between the Russian Acrid and the American Phoenix was all the difference in the world. It was the reason why the F-14 was king of the sky. It had a longer reach. It was like two knights, one with an eight-foot lance and one with a ten-foot lance. In a few more minutes, though, Laskov would no longer have the advantage. “Hawkeye, I’m going to engage this target before he gets within 130 kilometers, unless you can identify him or he identifies himself.”
General Talman rose from his chair in the Operations Room of The Citadel. He grabbed a radiophone and cut in quickly. “Gabriel, this is Operation Control. Look—you’re the man on the spot. You have to make the decision, but for God’s sake, consider all the angles.” He paused. “I’m behind you, whatever happens. Out.” Talman didn’t want to tie up the radio net with a political discourse. It had all been argued long before this. He stood and watched the converging radar blips on his screen as he stroked his mustache.
What Laskov had wanted from Talman was an unequivocal order to fire at will. But he knew better.
“Gabriel, this is Hawkeye. Listen. He is not—repeat, not—military because we do not pick up any sophisticated radar emissions from him.”
“Then what the hell goes 960 kilometers per hour?”
“Probably a civilian jet, Gabriel. Wait one. I have something coming in on the radio.”
Laskov shouted into his microphone. “I don’t give a good goddamn if it
is
a civilian jet. A civilian jet can be fitted to fire an air-to-air missile, too. Get me an I.D. on this guy, or he goes!”
There was no reply.
Danny Lavon spoke into the
“Roger, Gabriel. When we get unrestricted clearance from ATC, we’re climbing to 19,000 and accelerating to Mach 2.0 on a heading of 280 degrees.”
“Roger. I’ll be with you. So far, so good.”
“So far. I’m going back to company frequency. The copilot will monitor you.”
“Roger—break—Hawkeye, this is Gabriel 32. How are your blips?”
The E-2D Hawkeye was almost five kilometers directly above the Concordes and F-14’s. It had been simultaneously monitoring all three frequencies. The Air Control officer on board picked up his radiophone. “I have you all spotted and plotted, Gabriel. Do you see a craft approaching from a bearing of 183 degrees? About 180 kilometers distance from you? Not a scheduled airliner.”
Laskov spoke into the intercom to his flight officer behind him. “See anything, Dan?”
Daniel Lavon looked down at the combined television and cathode ray tube. “Possible. Something’s at the southwest edge of our radar. A little over 160 kilometers and approaching our intended flight path at right angles.”
The E-2D Hawkeye, with a crew of five and a cabin full of the latest electronic equipment, was in a better position to detect and classify aircraft than the F-14’s. The flight technician on the Hawkeye spoke to Laskov. “We’re trying to contact this craft, but we can’t raise him.”
Laskov acknowledged.
The E-2D command information controller got on the phone. “Gabriel, the unidentified craft is moving at approximerely 960 kilometers per. He is on a course and speed that will bring him across your intended flight path, but at 1,800 meters below you and Emmanuel and Clipper at your present altitude.”
“Roger, Hawkeye. Contact the son-of-a-bitch and tell him to change course and speed, or both.”
“Roger, Gabriel. We’re trying.”
Laskov considered. In about a minute, the unidentified craft would be within the 160 kilometer range of his Phoenix. If this craft had a pair of Russian Acrid missiles, it couldn’t engage the Concordes until it was within 130 kilometers. This 30-kilometer difference in range between the Russian Acrid and the American Phoenix was all the difference in the world. It was the reason why the F-14 was king of the sky. It had a longer reach. It was like two knights, one with an eight-foot lance and one with a ten-foot lance. In a few more minutes, though, Laskov would no longer have the advantage. “Hawkeye, I’m going to engage this target before he gets within 130 kilometers, unless you can identify him or he identifies himself.”
General Talman rose from his chair in the Operations Room of The Citadel. He grabbed a radiophone and cut in quickly. “Gabriel, this is Operation Control. Look—you’re the man on the spot. You have to make the decision, but for God’s sake, consider all the angles.” He paused. “I’m behind you, whatever happens. Out.” Talman didn’t want to tie up the radio net with a political discourse. It had all been argued long before this. He stood and watched the converging radar blips on his screen as he stroked his mustache.
What Laskov had wanted from Talman was an unequivocal order to fire at will. But he knew better.
“Gabriel, this is Hawkeye. Listen. He is not—repeat, not—military because we do not pick up any sophisticated radar emissions from him.”
“Then what the hell goes 960 kilometers per hour?”
“Probably a civilian jet, Gabriel. Wait one. I have something coming in on the radio.”
Laskov shouted into his microphone. “I don’t give a good goddamn if it
is
a civilian jet. A civilian jet can be fitted to fire an air-to-air missile, too. Get me an I.D. on this guy, or he goes!”
There was no reply.
Danny Lavon spoke into the
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